


There is an end to this

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [40]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-16 03:06:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18682882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: "And look!" The former Queen swung out a thin, shaking arm, grin sliding on her pale face. "You've done it, you've saved us all!"Wilson P. Higgsbury built a portal.And it worked.





	There is an end to this

**Author's Note:**

> Had this idea for awhile, spent a night writing it.

The ground shook under his feet, jerked and swayed and his insides were twisting, nausea raising its head as the colors of the world flashed white and grey, faded.

It was floorboards underneath his hands, knees against the wooden grounding, spaces closed and grains strained tight, old and stained and warped, splintering against his gloves, and the light headedness flooded over as he took great heaving breaths, very bones shaking and grinding and aching in the most unimaginable of ways. His gut swirled, as if every organ hadn’t quite settled yet, was still trying to find its correct place in the structure of his bones, and the fabric of the world was shoved and stretched to accommodate the sudden arrival of what it had once born oh so long ago.

The cacophony of noise was almost too much, a ringing din in his ears, confusion and a dizzy mash of too much at once, too much light and sound and the screaming, _he knew those voices_ , and then Maxwell raised his head, still gasping, and the world warped back as if a balloon popped, a suddenness that made him rock back and gape at the chaos surrounding him.

The mechanical nightmare before him chugged on its last legs, smoke and spurting oil and its peeling paint, burst bulbs, wooden pillars creaking, and it heaved steam in a great shudder, and all he could do was stare as it breathed its last.

And then there were steps, breaking through the din of chaos, of crying and yelling and confused shouting, and a warbled, roughened battlecry as someone raced past him, hammer in hand and face twisted into a horrendous, gnarled scream, and it was terrifying enough even without the tears and the stuttered wail.

He couldn’t even make himself draw a breath as Wilson P. Higgsbury set into the machine, hammer slamming down into its weakened frame and destroying, beating, _crushing_ that one, last, connection they would ever have to the ever churning Constant.

And then the breath was back, dusty decrepit air, almost enough to make him sneeze, and Maxwell was able to finally tear his gaze from the violence of man unto his own creation, but perhaps what was left surrounding them was worse.

There was the wailing from a child, familiar yet different, and the old woman tended to them, hands shaking as she ‘shhh’d and tried to comfort them, looking more drawn and tense than he’s ever actually seen her. The giant of a man was not so giant any longer, face fallen and confused and pale, hovering as he tried to get the woman's attentions with a thick, uneven tongue and even more stuttered questions, but she seemed to not be hearing him, concerned as she was with rocking the child she crouched beside.

There was the lumberjack, white knuckled and eyes wide, too wide as his voice rose, shouted to the axe in his hands, shoulders shaking and tear trails down his face. The woman beside him was all too pale, freckles stark and hair a frazzled mess and face at a lose, trying to shake the man into his senses but seeming even more so lost herself, and the spear in her hand and helmet on her head looked more fake than ever, ornate and rounded and as if, as if _toys_ in the hands of someone who knew no better.

There was the other woman, not in the center of it all but looking more unnerved, confused, and she fiddled with the lighter in her hand, stuffed bear tightly held close, and her pale, wide glance, biting her lower lip as her gaze landed on him for only that moment, was enough to have Maxwell shudder in another dusty breath of air and attempt to stand.

It was harder than usual, or had he never noticed perhaps, but his knees ached and his back complained and everything felt as if made of lead, dragging him down even as he rose, and the firestarter watched him with glazed, almost unseeing eyes before darting around for some semblance of comfort-

Which landed to the man behind him, still whacking away at the now dead and desecrated machine, the creation he had birthed himself with his own two hands, and the man wasn’t screaming anymore but his choked sobs were made with a snarl on his worn face.

His hands were pale about the hammer, not a dark mark about them, and Maxwell could feel the world wavering in his vision, as if something was all too out of place for him to understand anymore, and then the fabric snapped back together and the feeling was gone once more.

The very universe was stitching itself back, but in the wrong way. They were not supposed to be here.

The faintest thread of thought, remembering his own feelings on the matter back at that time, in a much different place, a ring of companionship about a risen fire and the words from every mouth taken into consideration as decisions were made, rose once more in his throat.

_They were not supposed to leave._

The wailing was quieting, ever so slightly, and he glanced back over to where Wickerbottom was, attempting to cradle the naked child, soothing them from their cries. Wolfgang hovered, confused, frightened, but it was easy to tell he knew who was in front of them.

Being ripped from their second half should have killed them. But the old woman rocked the young human, all too human, and Maxwell felt his insides twist, that cold drain in the back of his mind as his very existence adjusted itself once more to its home universe, and it… it has been far too long since he had breathed the air here.

It should have killed him. That was why he had elected to stay behind, along with a few of the others, unwilling to move on, to go home.

But something far out of their reach had made a different decision for them in the end.

Standing, looking about the cramped attic, noise fading into hushed sobs and thick, tense confusion, eyes raised all about to look to each other for aid, and movement towards him caught his floating, far too numb attention.

Wendy didn’t raise her head, only the faintest of half steps towards him, perhaps not even that, and in her hands were the wilted remains of all she had left of her sister. Her hair covered her face, obscured her away, but her shoulders shaked in the subtlest of ways and the tears falling to the grey petals, curled and long dead in her hands, was enough. Maxwell wavered, felt as if his voice was caught in his throat, and his own eyes were dry but he felt as if caught, stuck in this one spot, split with a sudden barrier. 

His niece grieved in the way she never wished to have to, and he couldn’t do anything, nothing at all. For this moment, something unspoken was stopping him, as if still, right now, the Constant continued to have a hold onto him. 

He could feel the traces of bindings on his wrists, about his neck, tightness to his chest, and taking every breath felt as if a privilege, not a right. 

Something felt so deeply wrong with this, _he was missing something, they all were-_

And then there was a cackle, a shrieking, hysterical cackle of laughter, high pitched and sweet and, and all too familiar, and everyone jerked their gazes towards it, called to attention.

The Queen leaned there, held up, too weak to stand, too weak to do anything but laugh, laugh until it was far too close to wailing sobs, and the man at her one side and the woman at her other had faces twisted in barely held together panic, barely held back, one painted face in an all too deep frown and the sisters dipped into a harsh mix of worry and confusion and suspicion and far too much, this was far too much to take.

Something went cold in Maxwell, frozen, not deer in the headlights but so much worse, hardly breathing as he finally got to see her face without the obscuring corrupted mask of shadow.

“You have done it, Wilson! You’ve done it!”

There was the sound of stumbling, the remains of the portal being kicked aside and collapsing in itself, and Maxwell couldn’t tear his eyes away but there was the sense of presence and the man stood by his side, eyes wide and mouth agape, shock at the sight of their former Queen so limp and corpse like before them.

“You are the genius you have always proclaimed yourself to be! I always knew there was something special about you.” Her face cracked, a snaking thin grin, hysterical and absolutely mad, the rose still set just so in her hair going crooked, and her eyes were wide and open and all too clear, voice wobbling and weak as she leaned forward, almost to fall forward had she not the two at her side to keep her up, the panic on Wes’s face spreading, Winona’s finally, finally starting to crack into shards to match. “And look! You’ve done it, you’ve saved us all!”

She flung out an arm, thin and pale, emancipated, to wave to the silence surrounding her, two children with tears and snot coating their faces and every other adult just barely holding in their sobs, and, and it was too much.

He was able to speak, for just a moment, her name halfway from his lips, a shaky step forward, and then her eyes shot towards him and they were sharp, all too sharp with how broken and thinly weak she was.

“You…” Charlie’s voice creaked, wheezed as if she was to cough, and she was panting for breath now and Wes was falling into a panic, Winona’s grip tightening as she tried to keep a firm hold to her sister, as the Queen lost all will to even attempt to keep herself up, but her eyes were dark and sharp and they dug, tore, straight to whatever was left in his all too hollow chest as she locked her gaze with him. “You should’ve stayed in hell.”

And then her eyes rolled back and Wes almost dropped her as she went limp, Winona letting out a sharp “C-Charlie!” as she caught her soundly, and the mime wobbled and looked as if to faint in turn, clinging a hold to the woman as she held her sister and blinked away the dampness in her eyes.

There was only a beat of silence, the words to sink in, in this dusty, decrepit old attic, every living, breathing breath so far removed from the workings of this universe and then so suddenly thrust back, back home in the worst of ways.

And then Wilson jumped to action and Willow was stumbling forward as well, and voices rose up and fell and rose again, Wigfrids hand taken by the firestarter and soft words to Woodie, coaxing him to a chair, Wickerbottom directed to a couch, the child once known as Webber burying their face into her arms, clinging to her still as their world turned upside down and inside out, and Wendy was called and led next to the old woman, a moment as Wilson ran his fingers, all too human fingers through his hair and tried to remember his house, _his_ house, and then downstairs went Charlie, down the ladder carefully to disappear from sight, and Maxwell stood there, cold and frozen stiff, and watched without seeing a single thing.

***

The barest beginnings of understanding, glittering consciousness, and Maxwell blinked and realized he was not where he had been only a moment ago.

A wooden wall to his back, and a threadbare, moth eaten blanket about him, his shoulders and lap, and breathing was a shuddering, painful thing, for this moment.

He felt…

Memory rushed back, a fell swoop to steal whatever semblance of balance he had almost achieved, and Maxwell closed his eyes and grit his teeth and tried to not fall into the dark.

Grounding didn’t come, for the longest of moments, and he was becoming lightheaded when a hand pressed to his shoulder and sound was a muffling of muteness but he blinked open his eyes and the air surrounding him suddenly was once more compatible with his lungs.

The fabric of the universe felt as if it was to reject him, but it gagged and coughed and could not do it.

“-axwell?”

Wilson hovered, and his eyes were still wide and he still had the evidence of his meltdown from earlier on his face but he looked far more grounded and among the living than Maxwell felt.

He rose a hand, rubbed at his eyes, and it felt as if his mind was a slurry, of sound and thought and darkened colors, and that barrier was still there, a numbness he couldn’t, couldn’t quite seem to push through just yet.

“...You alright?”

Maxwell could feel something off, about where he was, and turned his head and it was a mild, nudged surprised, to see Wendy curled up next to him. Asleep, it looked like, arms curled about her dear departed sister yet her head rested against his arm and another blanket had been put about her, just as worn and fringed and old looking as his own.

“I’m…” his voice felt wrong, wobbled and disused almost, dust thick in his throat as he fought away the urge to cough, pressing on, “I am fine.”

Turning to look back to Wilson, and the man did not look convinced, eyebrows furrowed and face dipped into a frown, but his eyes finally broke away to look to Wendy and he sighed, slowly letting himself sit down instead of crouching as he had been.

“She hasn't said a word yet, to no one. I thought she'd do better if she stayed with you. Glad that she’s at least getting some rest.”

Maxwell didn’t answer to that, lead in his veins and slowly letting his gaze wander over the empty surroundings of the attic, to fall still over the mess of metal and wood and wires opposite them, the ruins of it all.

“Where…?” His voice trailed, fell, and something in him was wobbling back and forth, wavering over the edge, and it, it was getting harder to see straight.

“Downstairs.” Wilson answered, looking in the same direction and voice falling flat as he looked upon what he had created oh so long ago. “It’s comfier down there, and has more space. A bit of food down in the cellar too, can you believe? After all this time…”

Maxwells silence carried them, for the moment, and then Wilson was looking back to him, eyes hard and serious and yet fringed with that wailing panic of before, entering back into his home with unhinged anger and terror and grief, masking into a semblance of control.

“Charlie is still alive, by the way. She’s fine. Don’t know if you wanted to know that or not, but…”

And there Wilson stopped, startled, but Maxwell could hardly give a damn because whatever that barrier had been keeping away had broken and very suddenly his face felt wet and it was so, so very difficult to breath.

He could hardly understand what he was even doing, his sense of being felt all wrong and rubbed raw, but his head was in his hands and he was shaking terribly and he-

He couldn’t stop.

It was a miracle he didn’t wake Wendy, but hands went to his shoulders, human hands pale and calloused and all too real, and he was gasping for every dusty dry breath against the other man's shoulders, thin weedily sobs from his own throat as every little blocking wall, the numbness that had settled and clawed a firm, biting hold, all so suddenly just.

Let go.

Every breath hurt, everything hurt, in the worst of ways that felt like squeezing his chest and tightening tight to his very skin, but his stuttering breath was wheezed and shallow and real, happening, _he was out_ , and it felt like a swirled muddy mess in his head, too much to consider at once.

The ways of the Constant could not hold its own in the waking world. Every bit of its numbered fold, its statistical fabric weaving for every pawn, was washed away, and suddenly Maxwell could feel the utmost clarity of it all, the sudden knowledge that what he was, right now, was all too human and all too mortal, and he would be nothing else, ever again.

The shock of it, this crystal clear breaking point, and it only collided into a chaos, of Charlie and the crying of children and the panicked wailing thick in the air, the bone jarring snap of what was left of the Constant that had settled so deep into his body, and now?

It was all gone, and Maxwell wailed muffled sobs into Wilsons shoulder, clinging tight to him as he shook at the newfound feeling of the mortal coil that settled back into its rightful place once more.

***

It didn’t last long. In all fairness it was the oddest of things, to have the natural feeling of being _human_ settle into the subconscious background of life noise.

Maxwell held tight to it, feared the nature of forgetfulness, but mortal life had a way with easing the sense of it all. The Constants influence was fading away.

Wilson had left after a few moments, to fetch something perhaps, he had barely heard, not to mention understand what had been said, but then there were steps on the old wooden floorboards and Maxwell slowly looked up and watched the man sit down once more, offering up a glass in his hand.

“The piping still works, and it doesn’t taste half bad.”

He could only blink at that, breathing slow and still, still trying to organize himself, and everything felt so terribly…

So terribly slow. Or, was the word a differing one he was thinking of? Pointless, perhaps, and the thread of thought from that didn’t even seem to have an understanding to him.

He felt more drained than he’s ever felt, in a deeper way than anything else, and not even the Throne could have done something in such a way to do this. It felt all too-

_-Mortal, human-_

-and all the energy he ever had was gone, now. Everything felt as if it was gone.

“Come on, I can’t hold this out forever.”

When that didn’t get much of a response besides Maxwell finally just closing his eyes, Wilson sighed.

And it did make Maxwell flinch, hands grabbing a hold of his wrist and making his thin fingers clasp a hold to the lukewarm glass. For a moment he almost, almost felt a hint of indignation, _he didn’t need to be manhandled_ , but then it swirled into a fog that began to drain away in his chest.

“...Don’t be doing this, alright? Not right now, when everyone else is still…” Wilsons voice trailed off, dipped and wobbled for a moment, and Maxwell glared idly at the glass of water in his hands. 

The water didn’t look very good, a faint fizzling of bubbles and film over the top, and for some reason it was this that was making him blink ever so slightly more awake.

And Wilson had already drank it, hadn’t he? Who...who in their right mind would drink this muck?

Before he could formulate himself, an answer or accusation or just plain feeling upset about the water of all things, there was a shifting by his side.

Wilson quieted himself, face going soft, and Maxwell glanced over to see Wendy blink awake, sit up and cradle her sister close, and at this moment, in this light, she seemed so, so much younger than ever.

Her eyes lighted upon the glass in his hands, and she shifted herself a moment, leaned away to give some space between each other, and only seemed to consider it a moment before she rather skillfully snaked it from his thin hands and took it for her own.

That sparked a bit of something-

_-The level of disrespect!-_

-but Wilson spoke up quickly at the sight of his slowly snarling face.

“I’ll get you another cup, Maxwell, don’t be mean.” His gaze went to the girl, pale eyes not even raising to meet either of theirs, sipping on the water and looking to her sister, for advice or comfort Maxwell couldn’t guess, and he’d never know the answer either, not with the state of things. His words made Maxwell huff, and the drain in him, the lead in his limbs was fading now, pushed away, distractions raising up and shoving coherent thought into the pettiness that it usually was, and he sat himself more up, blanket falling to his lap more fully as he adjusted himself to the hard wooden flooring.

“Uh, Wendy, do you want me to-”

Wilson cut off as her voice suddenly rose, a quiet mumble, and he shut himself up quick, mouth snapping closed as she raised her eyes up, the redness and damp of her face closed off, hidden underneath the porcelain mask once more. Without the marks of tears she would have looked as stiff and guarded as always, but there was a slight sniffle as Maxwell tilted his head and found his gaze meeting hers.

“...What is it, dear?”

His own voice was hoarse, quiet, but in the silence of the attic it sounded loud and deep and almost, almost familiar enough. The lump in his throat, the swirl of thought, _the Constant,_ was swallowed down, and for a moment the girl looked to be in the same predicament.

And then she blinked, and her eyes stared emptily into his own.

“...is...is my sister still here?”

Silence, between them all, and after a moment she haltingly raised her hand, the one holding tight to the wilted flower and its trailing petals sliding from her palms, and the glass of water went to set at her side in favor of both to cradle her lost sibling, and she offered the flower up to Maxwell, almost close enough to have him lean away, and her face fell and morphed and twisted into something childish and desperate and heartbroken.

“She’s, she’s still here, right? Abigail isn’t gone, she didn’t leave me, did she?”

Maxwell opened his mouth, closed it and swallowed, fighting the urge to cough at the dryness of the very air itself. At her urging, shaking the flowers remains, eyes pleading and mask falling and melting to a child's desperate, silent pleads, he carefully held his own shaking hands out, to accept the remains she still cupped, little hands cradled in his gloved ones.

He stared down at it, the grey plant matter, and his gaze for a moment fell to the rose still pinned to his own suit.

It was in much the same disrepair, flora organic matter suffering from the trip, rotting and drying into a nothingness no one could ever hope to hold again.

“Please…” Wendy whispered, and her eyes were filling up with tears again, and Maxwell…

Was at a lose. His niece had never been one for such things as this, not in front of others, certainly not in front of him, and it was an odd thing, to look into her eyes and see the sadness of who she was unobscured by the shadows.

A pale hand rose up, hesitated only a moment before setting onto Wendy's wrist, and Wilson met both of their gazes, steady and anchored as Wendy tried to blink back her tears.

“It’s okay.” was all he said.

And it sent a turmoil of emotions through Maxwell to see his nieces eyes well up, blink, and then the girl burst into tears, hiccuping as her hands curled too tight into the flowers remains, pulling back to her chest as old petals fell to her lap. She shook her head, almost violently, and then stopped, curling over her sister as she sobbed silently, and Maxwell glanced over to meet Wilson's gaze.

But the man had already moved, a light touch to her shoulder, and then Wilson went stiff in shock as Wendy lunged out and clung to him, wobbling wheezes as one hand clutched her flower close and the other clawed to his vest, and the man gave Maxwell a wide eyed look, lost and a bit of asking for aid.

Maxwell could almost feel the weight of the world, the dragging stone of his limbs and aching protest in his joints, but he was moving anyway and he only hesitated a second before curling his arms about his niece and attempted to offer up some sort of comfort, feeling her shake as she cried, grieved for what she had so suddenly lost once more.

Wilson was inadvertently in his attempt at a hug as well, but the shorter man moved an arm and his hand was on Maxwells shoulder, squeezing a moment as if he was trying to show some sort of support as well, and everything felt all too unsteady and unreal but right now, his niece was sobbing her heart out and it was only him and Wilson, only the two of them, and he could only offer this.

It really, really wasn’t enough, but the emptiness in him, trying to drain him down once more, at least allowed this. 

Everything was gone, and it was just them here, now.

The Constant was gone.

***

The stairs creaked on the way down, steep and unsteady, and Maxwell wobbled as he tried to keep his balance, thin blanket over his shoulders as he followed at the back of their little train down.

Wilson waited, offered a supporting arm that led him to the wall to lean upon, and Wendy stood off to the side, flower still cupped in her hands and eyes downcast, silent. 

She hadn’t spoken a word afterwards, and Maxwell averted his eyes and feared for the worse, in the swirling fog of his own mind.

There was a few snaps, clicking groans as Wilson closed up the attic. For good, it seemed, turning the manual lock in place, and for a long, long moment the man stood there, staring upwards, to where the remains of what had been his life's accumulations had all ended up as, to where everything for him had both ended and begun.

And then he snapped out of it, shaking his head with closed eyes and rubbing a hand through his hair. Maxwell stared impassively as the short man tugged at his locks as grounding before getting a grip, eyes blinking open, and with that Wilson got a hold of himself once more.

He felt...unsteady, not using the wall as balance anymore but feeling as if a simple touch would make him collapse, and it was the worst thing in the world, to feel so drained and empty and hollow, weak as he did right now. It was not the first time he’s ever been so thinly vulnerable, helpless, but it was the first he’s ever felt in such a cacophony of mixed silence, this detachment he could hardly understand.

His body did not feel his own, the taste of his own dry spit in his mouth not quite matching. Something was missing, terribly, and passing through that gate had torn it from his chest and very veins, not allowing it to pass to the real, living world. Perhaps, back there, there was a left behind mess of tar and melted shadow clones, splits not quite absorbed into the Constant and yet never to be a part of himself again.

He was someone wholly differing, now, and it being the second time to have happened to him in his all too long life was a second time too much.

Down the hallway, crowded and narrow, not pictures or paintings but bookcases and cabinets, cluttered dusty artifacts and decomposed, fallen apart books and papers, and Maxwell trailed behind the other man, Wendy following close to his heels.

For a moment they passed an opening, a doorway. The door itself crooked, broken, disrepair and time making it collapsed down, just barely hanging on, and inside Maxwell raised his eyes to see-

-Wickerbottom, quiet, pushing up her glasses as she read softly, a book in her trembling hands-

-a young child, a thick, old looking blanket bundled about them, eyes wide and blinking sightlessly as they leaned in her lap, sucking on a thumb and hugging a teddy bear tight-

-a man sitting on a chair in the corner, one hand brushing circles over the blade of his axe, face downcast and drawn, sallow and brittle and not nearly as lively as he so much should be-

-and then they walked past, and Maxwell drew his gaze away, that draining feeling growing ever stronger, along with an emotion he couldn’t quite put a name too.

A grief, perhaps. But he’d rather not guess.

The hall opened up to the living room, still cluttered, but the dust showed it had been cleared a bit, things shuffled to the side, dragged to the front door and set outside.

Wilson put a hand to Wendy's shoulder, directed her to an open chair, and the girl barely acknowledged him as she shuffled over, sat delicately on the cushioned pillows, cradling the flowers remains close. The look on the mans face made Maxwell look away, and his jaw ached with how tight he grit it, a sudden tense air he drew into his lungs.

It went away in one fell whoosh as he spotted who was on on the couch, face dropping slack as he recognized her, laying upon it as if asleep, relaxed almost if it were not for her almost emancipated appearance, thin and worn down to the bone. Charlie slept on, probably the first time she had the ability to rest since she had awoken to the Constants shadows, and Maxwell couldn’t help but to watch.

Wes watched him back, painted face an impassive frown, sitting beside her, hands in his lap. Maxwell met his gaze once, for a brief moment, but whatever passed between them was quick and short and he politely looked away.

For all his attentiveness in the Constant, Wes’s painted face was stained now, the color of his skin peeking through faded white, and the mime looked worse for wear because of it.

Movement, shuffling about, and he rose his gaze to see Wilson set off to the other side of the room, opening into a kitchen of sorts, and he followed suit, not knowing nothing else but to, ha, follow the leader.

Wilson had never been a good leader, not at all a great one, but this was his house. Perhaps he was a good host then.

The kitchen had a small table, cleared besides dust, and the former Queens sister was busy with cans and pots and pans, face stiff and downturned and focused, as if to not think too hard about the everything that was, and she hardly gave them a passing glance as she busied herself over the old metal stove.

“Give me a few days and I’ll have it up to date for ya, Wilson. Electric would be better, but I got rid of your gas leaks for now.”

“Uh.” Wilson looked mildly confused, but the woman didn’t seem to notice. “Thank you?”

Or, Maxwell thought, watching as she got to work opening the cans and dumping what looked to be congealed soup into a few pots, perhaps she didn’t care.

He hovered by the doorway, turning his head to watch Wes look over Charlie for a moment, arm raising to press the back of his hand to her forehead, and his painted frown seemed to deepen even more as he pulled away.

Wendy sat stiff in her chair, and the only movement was the barest of delicate touch, fingertips brushing over her sisters last remains.

“You have enough stored for a week, maybe more. The lot of us are gonna have to go out and find stock if we stay here longer than that.”

Winona fiddled with the gas, the slight noise of the flame catching, and the stove was laden with the pots, cold slurries of canned stews and soups, and Maxwell idly wondered just how edible it would all be.

But, at the end of the day, they’ve all eaten worse and this was not going to be turned down by anyone in the house.

“So….you guys are going to stay?”

Wilsons question hung in the air, and Maxwell could see Wes freezing up in his peripheral vision, eyes wide as he turned to look to the kitchen, Wendy impassively stiff in her cushioned chair, and Winona heaved a sigh, still not turning around to face the man.

“We’ll see.” Her voice was resigned, steady and walled off, and Wilson had a frown dipping on his face but he didn’t press any further, the woman rolling her shoulders and getting back to busying herself. “Dinner’ll be done soon, half an hour at most though I doubt that. Are the others back yet?”

That made Maxwell raise an eyebrow, watching as Wilson shook his head with an exasperated sigh.

“I haven’t had the opportunity to check, was just going right now.” He hesitated for a moment as he was passing Maxwell by, staunchly ignoring his enquiring look, and glanced back to the woman. “Thank you, Winona.”

She waved a hand, and actually threw a grin, thin and weak as it was, back to him.

“No problem, no problem at all. Food should do us all some good.”

Maxwell didn’t hang around the kitchen, the silence as Winona ignored him as completely as if he hadn’t been there at all, and followed Wilson back out. This time, however, his interest had been taken.

“Who is gone, may I ask? And why the heck would they, at a time like this?”

Wilson stopped before the front door, turned to stare up at Maxwell, and he had taken back that scowl that set so easily on his face, seemed to have slipped back into his old self once more.

Or perhaps it was just what he did when Maxwell prodded him with questions at apparently the wrong times.

“They’re checking if anyone else is around, in case the area is dangerous or not. And,” he hesitated a moment, gaze looking away as he scratched his chin, and he took a breath, leveled and steady and only slightly wobbly, as if the reminder was being shoved to the side, “-they are looking for-”

The interruption this time was a loud thwump of noise, enough to startle the both of them, Wilson almost jumping into him as Maxwell automatically, almost instinctively stumbled back, and then the front door was flung open.

There was shouting outside, yelling, but before any words could be figured out Maxwell froze as someone darted forward in a charge of a yell and slammed into both Wilson and him. He was thrown back into the wall, arms thrown out to steady himself, but Wilson wasn’t so lucky.

The attacker slammed the man to the floor, falling with him and pushing the shorter man under them, and then hands were at his throat and a screaming face was brought close to his own, spit and bared teeth with a hissingly hoarse and coughing ragged voice as he was shaken.

“-YOU DID THIS YOU OBNOXIOUSLY HORRID SCIENTIST MEAT BAG, YOU FUCKED UP EVERYTHING, I’LL KILL YOU, I SWEAR TO YOUR PATHETIC EXCUSES OF FALSE GODS THAT I’LL KILL YOU-”

And then the yelling from outside caught up and big hands were grabbing the attacker off, Wilsons hands going to his throat and coughing as the shock of it sent air back into him, sitting up and scooting back as Wolfgang wrestled the person and caught up their hands to be behind their back.

Wigfrid shoved herself in, a bare glance to Maxwell as she pushed herself past him, and she hauled Wilson back to his feet without waiting for him to stabilize, wide eyed and looking a bit panicked as she turned a narrow glare at the still struggling attacker.

“WX78, we have caught yöu in a fair run. Accept defeat.”

Maxwell blinked, heart still hammering in his chest, and stared at the person now held hostage by Wolfgang, arms crossed behind them.

They were bare, nude of clothing, and they snarled, face twisting into grimacing and twitching violently, flinching from the contact and trying to wiggle away, hissing as if every touch was too much, sensitive to their very surroundings.

“-I’LL KILL YOU ALL, EVERY SINGLE LAST ONE OF YOU, YOU FLESHLINGS I WILL CRUSH YOU UNDERFOOT AND IT WILL BE LESS THAN YOU DESERVE WITH WHAT YOU HAVE DONE TO ME-”

“Hey old man, didn’t think I was gonna see you walking again.”

Maxwell jolted, leaned away as Willow slipped through the open doorway, door clicking closed behind her and looking remarkably calm about the whole situation. Her lighter was in hand, swinging it freely, and out of all of them her face was the least pale and lost, as if this wasn’t the worst thing to have ever happened to her.

But then, he supposed it really wasn't. The firestarter has been through a lot, and he may have forgotten the details the Throne had once provided him with but the idea still clung to his mind.

“You looked half dead up there earlier. And here I thought we’d have one less old fart to deal with.”

Maxwell was caught between the sheer shock of WX78’s rather violent introduction and the puffing up indignation at Willows stark disrespect, but the woman seemed to have said everything as jest and rather suddenly elbowed him in the arm, sticking out her tongue as she finally turned her pale eyes to the show unfolding before the both of them.

Wes watched on, face having slided into something neutral, the slightest of sparks in his eyes as he watched the once a robot scream out more curses and kick their legs in a vain attempt to knock Wolfgang away, Wilson raising his hands and trying to calm them down, and Wendy raised up her pale eyes to look as well, mask having set back in into something expressionless and almost bored. There was shuffling from the kitchen, Winona poking her head out to raise an eyebrow at the chaos, before she seemed to come to the conclusion that it was being handled and disappeared back to what she had been doing earlier. 

There was a smell now, a faint scent that seemed to tickle the memories in the very back of his mind, peas and potatoes and canned meat not at all something to be found in the Constant, and it was leveling a very odd nostalgia to the whole scene, mixtures of then and before and way, way back in the past.

Rubbing the bruise that was surely forming now on his arm, Maxwell scowled at the woman, but out of everything happening it was the most bizarre to see someone look as if everything was just completely fine. No odd silences, no forgetful look in the eyes, not even a hint of tears or confusion, and the woman leaned against the wall next to him, crossing her arms as she flicked her lighter on and off, amusement lighting up her face.

A part of him wished to ask, but even the drain of emptiness in him felt as if...slowed, stowed away under the distractions and messy shenanigans, and even the influx of voices as Wolfgang tried to quiet WX78 down with kinder words and Wigfrid barely contained herself with the “successful hunt”, Wilson running his hands through his hair and looking stressed, but in a way Maxwell was far too familiar with, it almost felt….

He’d not think normal, not now, not like this, but it was very close.

Perhaps everything would just...sort itself out, somehow. Glancing over to see her face, Willow certainly looked as if she believed that already.

Maybe he should take a crack at that.

By now WX78 had quieted, face dropping into a wide pout, almost sullen as Wilson continued to try and explain, pacify them, and Wolfgang after a moment set the person's feet down to touch the flooring, not holding them up so strongly as before. There was a brief interruption, and Wendy had gotten up, quiet as she offered up her threadbare blanket to WX78, and they frowned and glared and spit angry words at her but snatched it up anyway, his niece dipping her head and shuffling to offer quiet, secret words to their ear before pulling away to sit back at her seat and stare down to her sister.

Wigfrid had a frown, concern on her face, and Wilson's had softened and turned sad, and Willow bit her crooked lip as her gaze darted between them all, but then WX78 broke the moment with a scoff, and Maxwell watched idly as it fell back into some sort of almost, so close to almost normal flow, WX78 wrapping the blanket about their shoulders and covering themselves a bit more now.

The moment turned about, grew steady, and Maxwell could breathe again, staring at them all and finding some sort of odd relief in knowing that he recognized this lot, at the very least.

And then there was a shuffle, a hush, and he turned his head with the rest of the former pawns to watch as their thin, broken Queen slowly sat up, rubbed her face with a yawn he felt with a tugging familiarity, and woke up.

The silence after was deafening, and Maxwell felt the cold in him rise up once more, a hard lump in his throat, at the sight of her gaze flickering to all of them, landing upon him for the shortest of narrowed moments before dismissing him just as quickly.

Perhaps he was wrong, then, to believe everything would sort its way into normalcy. It wouldn’t be the first time, and certainly not the last.

Then Winona was coming out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on an old rag fraying at the edges, cheery words out of her mouth, and for the first time in a very, very long time, Charlie’s face lit up.

Maxwell felt himself untense, in the slightest of ways.

Perhaps he just needed the hope of it, was all.


End file.
